I Lost a Little Piece of Me

For as long as I can remember, I've been around men and their cars. My brothers had nice cars and they spent countless hours on summer days washing and waxing them. But that was back in the days when nice cars were not Honda Accords or Toyota Camrys. Nice cars were '69 Firebirds and '68 Camaros and '67 Chevelles. Ah, those were the days. When I was in high school in the mid to late '70s, it was very popular to buy these old cars and fix them up. Or buy them already cherried out. Whatever. It was just cool to have those old cars.

In the spring of 1981 I was getting ready to graduate from college when I bought my '81 Camaro. It was the end of the second generation Camaros. They would quit assembling that body style in June. I ordered one and was lucky to get it, picking it up in March. MFH says this was a Wednesday afternoon car - not built on Monday when everyone didn't want to be back at work, and not built on Friday when everyone wanted to get started on the weekend. She was a peach. Now, my '81 Camaro is one of those "old cars". I LOVED to drive her.

I sold her today. She is still a nice car, runs well and looks nice. MFH took good care of her. I had her for 25 years - a quarter of a century. A young man bought her that will take care of her and, hopefully, appreciate her as much as I did over the years. It's silly to get all misty eyed and sentimental about selling a car. But she wasn't just any car. She was a part of me.

And today I lost a little piece of me when I watched him drive her away.